Title: Little Blond Something

Disclaimer: I don't own Queer as Folk. Showtime and Cowlip do. Life is unfair.

Summary: Brian realizes the little ways Justin has changed his day-to-day routine.

A/N: Takes place... probably sometime during season one.

Brian blinked against the cruel assault of the morning sun against his eyes. Christ, was it trying to permanently blind him? For a brief moment, he envisioned himself sightless, wearing sunglasses and brandishing a walking stick as he navigated his way through Babylon, knowing legions of fuckable guys were inches away from him, if only he could see them...

Shaking his head, he cleared the disturbing image from his mind. Instinctively, he glanced over at the space occupied by his...whatever. Justin was still sleeping soundly, mouth open with a bit of drool trickling from the corner of his mouth. Brian irritably shook his head again as an unwonted, unwelcome fuzzy sensation warmed him from the inside, causing an affectionate smile to play across his lips. The grin melted into a frown, and he shooed away the words such as 'adorable' that had flitted into his head. He was still tired, that was it. Once he'd gotten up and had a shower, his head would be clearer.

Careful not to disturb Justin, Brian slid from the bed. He looked back again before he left the younger man for a shower, however, and noticed that the blond was tightly wrapped in a cocoon of thick, heavy blankets. Brian's eyes flicked to the covers that he had thrown back seconds before: a thin sheet and a tiny corner of the comforter.

What the fuck?

Deciding that he would bring up the subject of Justin's nightly blanket-stealing rituals when the young man woke up, Brian turned huffily on his heel and marched toward the bathroom.

He gave the shower a few seconds to warm up, then gratefully stepped into the downpour of water. Reaching blindly for the soap, his fingers closed around the slippery bar. He slowly began to rub circles into his skin, soapy foam slicking it. Wait a second... he looked down at the bar of soap in his hands. The minty green bar of soap in his hands. What had happened to his best-brand-that-money-could-buy pearly white soap?

"Justin," he growled under his breath. Reluctantly, he finished cleansing himself with the green soap, which smelled oddly familiar, and was relieved when he reached for his shampoo bottle and found that it, at least, had not been replaced with some cheap shampoo of Justin's. He really needed to have a talk with his...whatever he was. He also really needed to stop calling him a "whatever he was" and figure out what the fuck he actually was.

Making sure to use the green towel currently hanging in their--his-- bathroom, so that Justin could use the fluffy blue one he liked, Brian quickly dried himself off with the not quite as fluffy but still soft and warm green one, wondering all the while when he had started doing things like that.

He couldn't help but get a whiff of his soap-scented skin. Though no one was around to see him, he wrinkled his nose, though privately thinking it wasn't that bad. At all, really. He suddenly realized why it smelled so familiar, where he had smelled it before...the soap smelled exactly like Justin.

Brian's eyes fell on the counter around the sink...or more specifically, the contents that littered it. Old, crumpled receipts, spare change, a pen or two, a few rough sketches, and even one of Justin's nipple rings cluttered up the space, the younger man obviously having emptied his pockets before stripping of his pants and showering. Brian scowled at the mess. He began scooping it all into a pile for Justin to go through later, trying to pretend he didn't notice that the sketches he saw were all of him and the blond twink.

Towel slung loosely around his waist, Brian headed back for the bedroom for some clothes. He pulled open a drawer, lifting some of Justin's jeans aside, carefully so as not to get everything too out of order or Justin would complain at him, and he really didn't feel like listening to him whine, and found a pair of his own pants. Once he was dressed, he headed out into the kitchen to make himself some coffee with his favorite rich coffee beans, which required being rich to even buy them. Swishing the remaining dark, mahogany-colored liquid around in the bottom of the coffee pot, he debated whether it was enough for Justin to drink later. He wouldn't have cared, but Justin was cranky before his coffee, and Brian really didn't feel like being on the intercepting end of that mood. That was all.

Deciding, in the end, that there was plenty of coffee left for Justin to drink if he so desired, Brian set the pot back down and went to collapse on his sofa, his own coffee mug in hand. He picked up the newspaper he'd left on the table. Flipping idly through the pages, he came across a column about some apparently famous artist's apparently exquisite new painting. He smiled as he thought of his own little artist, and thought to fold the corner of the page down for Justin to read later. He quickly thought better of it, however, and simply laid the paper back down on the coffee table with that particular article facing upward. If it looked as though he had just so happened to have discarded the newspaper after reading it, and it had just so happened to be with that particular page face-up, there was no harm done, right?

He took a sip of his half-drunk coffee, frowning in distaste as he discovered it was cold. Oh, well. He didn't really feel like drinking it any more anyway. Maybe he'd get another on the way to work or something. Brian stood up and traipsed back into the kitchen to dump out the rest of the coffee. Normally, he would have filled the cup with water and left it in the sink, but Justin had been complaining about that lately, during the days he emptied the dishwasher. He hated how everything in the sink was soaking wet when he picked it up. "Soap it, don't soak it," the blond had reprimanded, and Brian remembered rolling his eyes. From then on, however, he had tried to remember to either put the offending dishes he used in the dishwasher, or else 'soap' them, scrubbing them down and drying them...not 'soaking' them in the sink.

When everything was to His Royal Pain in the Highness's liking, Brian figured it was about time to head to work. It was still pretty early, but there was a big presentation he wanted to be prepared for. He went to fish his Prada shoes out of his bedroom, and almost snorted when he saw Justin, or rather, when he didn't see him. The young man was now buried so far within his hollow of blankets that Brian could see nothing more than a sliver of blond hair poking out the top. Careful not to step on any of the half a dozen piles of papers that included Justin's homework, Justin's drawings, and a whole lot of other crap of Justin's that were now scattered over the bedroom floor, he managed to locate his shoes and slipped them on. Why the hell he had taken in an artist, of all types... a dreamy, disorganized artist... was beyond him.

Standing up and navigating his way back across the room, Brian paused to look back at his little blond...something... barely detectable under the lump of covers. He quickly broke his gaze when he realized he was staring. Nearly tripping over Justin's backpack that had been dropped unceremoniously in front of the loft door, and was crammed with more sketches and other art supplies than actual schoolbooks, Brian could not help but marvel at the impact his little blond something had on even the tiniest aspects of his life. Damn little...whatever he was.